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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28250430">Swallow My Pride</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/starwarned/pseuds/starwarned'>starwarned</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Christmas, Christmas Presents, Established Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow, Fluff, Gift Fic, Gift Giving, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Post-Canon, literally the mildest of hurt/comfort</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:49:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,104</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28250430</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/starwarned/pseuds/starwarned</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"But, the problem with being a snarky piece of shit boyfriend, is that I’m not good at apologizing for what I’ve said. So I don’t. I just let it go."</i>
</p>
<p>Baz makes up for a mistake by giving Simon something new.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch &amp; Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>104</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Winter Holiday Collection 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Swallow My Pride</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybluebucketofsnow/gifts">mybluebucketofsnow</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi!! This is my gift for <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybluebucketofsnow/pseuds/mybluebucketofsnow">@mybluebucketofsnow</a> for the SHP Holiday Gift Exchange! Thank you so much for your prompt, Blue, I liked it a whole bunch. This was so much fun to write! </p>
<p>I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. </p>
<p>Thank you so much to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelaLugosi/pseuds/BelaLugosi">@BelaLugosi</a> for betaing this fic for me!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I eye Simon’s shirt with distaste. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Not only does it have the most </span>
  <em>
    <span>idiotic </span>
  </em>
  <span>saying printed on it (</span>
  <em>
    <span>Sarcastic Comment Loading…</span>
  </em>
  <span>), but there are holes in both armpits, a bleach stain and a huge tear on the bottom hem, and it’s far too big on him. (He could absolutely be wearing something fashionable and look like a bloody Instagram model.)</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I try not to sigh out loud. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He has insisted on coming with me down to the mall to get some last minute presents for my family and I’m considering lending him one of my sweaters so that he doesn’t just wear that asinine t-shirt under his coat in public.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I give in to my intuition, but have to come up with a better reason than </span>
  <em>
    <span>that shirt is hideous</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “Do you want something warmer than that?” I ask Simon as he slips on his left sneaker. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” he asks, innocently looking up at me. I almost feel bad (except that I am truly just trying to keep him warmer. Sort of). </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Stay here,” I say, leaving Simon to grapple with his laces so I can go find a sweater that I’m sure I have hanging up in Simon’s wardrobe. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I do indeed find a sweater in Simon’s things — it’s one of the only things hanging up there. It’s one of my favorite sweaters — a dark green knit that I know will look striking against Simon’s skin tone and hair. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I carry it out to Simon, who has finally gotten on his shoes and is leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. He looks stunning, even in that obnoxious shirt. I offer him the sweater and he accepts it without much of a fuss. (He’s always liked wearing my clothes anyway.) </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And I was right — he looks beautiful in it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He slips his oversized (and very worn) coat over the top of the sweater and then pulls me in by the collar to kiss me. I sigh into his mouth and kiss back, suddenly very uninterested in going gift shopping. I’d much rather stay here. I make my intentions of not going anywhere known by dropping my hands to Simon’s waist and running them up under his shirt so I can just feel the heat of his stomach and hips against my fingers. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When I feel the tear in the hem of his t-shirt against my hand, I sigh. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And Simon pulls away, recognizing that it’s a different kind of sigh. “What?” he asks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing,” I immediately say, and try to pull him back to kiss me again. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He resists and keeps a strong hold of me by the collar. “Baz.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Snow.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s wrong?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I roll my eyes. “It’s that god awful shirt, Snow. Do you insist on wearing it every day, even out in public?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What? What’s wrong with my shirt?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Do I really need to answer that?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Simon blushes (and I’d be much happier about how lovely it makes him look if I didn’t know that it’s an embarrassed blush and it’s my fault). “I didn’t think you hated it that much,” he mumbles. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t hate it,” I say. Even though I really do. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Right,” Simon says, and I know he doesn’t believe me. (I don’t really believe myself.) He shrugs his coat tighter and steps away from me. “Thanks for the sweater then.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>We go shopping without any more discussion of me disliking his clothing, but I can tell that Simon is stewing about it in the passenger seat of my car on the way back to his flat. It was a successful trip for both of us — I got Mordelia a new dress that I think she’ll like and Simon spent fifteen minutes deciding that he wanted the green apple flavored sweets versus the watermelon flavored ones. He insists that he’ll share them with Shepard, but I doubt that. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When we get back to the flat, Simon immediately disappears into his room, shutting the door behind him in a subtle sign of not wanting me to follow him. Which is fine. I assume he’s just going to have his way with some sweets. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Simon eventually returns to the common area and settles himself down on the couch. He’s taken off his overcoat, but is still wearing my sweater and I can’t help but smile at seeing it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>We sit on the couch for a while, watching some insipid action film that Simon put on so we could snog during it. And we do. Snog, that is. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>We only stop when Fiona texts me, demanding that I come home and help her put a new tapestry that she got at a flea market and that might be full of bedbugs. She insists that she can’t magic it onto the wall because it could ruin the integrity of the fabric. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I go reluctantly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Snow, what in the sacred name of Douglas J. Henning are those?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Simon turns around from where he’s bent over the couch and looks at me with wide eyes. “What?” he demands, immediately checking himself for what I could be talking about. I’m surprised he doesn’t just </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s quite obvious to me. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Your </span>
  <em>
    <span>jeans</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” I supply, gesturing to the abominations on his legs. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Well, alright. Abomination is a bit far. He’s wearing tight jeans that have two symmetrical rips underneath each of his arse cheeks. (I’m not complaining too much about the lovely strips of skin that show off the curve of his arse, but the jeans themselves are old, worn, and have unrecognizable stains covering them.)</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t bother to wear anything under the jeans so anyone who looks lower than the hem of his shirt will surely get an eyeful. And he was leaning over the edge of the sofa to grab his phone so I got quite the look. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I can hardly look anywhere </span>
  <em>
    <span>but </span>
  </em>
  <span>lower than his shirt. I’m sat at the dining table, trying to complete the word puzzle of the day that Daphne sent me, but was assaulted by Simon stepping into the kitchen with the world’s most naff pair of jeans. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s wrong with them?” he asks, self consciously turning around to face me so his back is to the sofa now.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Your entire </span>
  <em>
    <span>arse </span>
  </em>
  <span>is on display is what’s wrong with them,” I say. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Simon blushes and he puts his hands over the rips (which just makes him look like he’s grabbing onto both of his arse cheeks). “My tail…” he says and then my chest seizes up with the guilt of making a comment about his jeans if he legitimately can’t control the rips. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Of course it’s his tail. He’s complained multiple times about the discomfort of hiding his tail in his trousers. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It just ripped through,” he says. He still looks embarrassed. “And it’s more comfortable like this.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As if on cue, his tail snakes out from where it’s tucked under the waistband of his jeans to slip through one of the holes. It’s… quite a sight. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Snow,” I sigh. “You don’t plan on wearing those today, do you?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Simon frowns. “Why wouldn’t I? I can just tuck my tail in, yeah?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I shouldn’t be so caught up in Simon’s clothes, but it’s making me annoyed that he won’t just let me buy new ones for him (I’ve tried). First the shirt, now these jeans - he’s probably had both articles of clothing since he was fifteen. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright,” I say, not succeeding in keeping my voice neutral. I hate the jeans, but it’s not my place to bring it up any longer. He can do whatever he pleases. “Be ready to go in half an hour.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He nods slowly. And then bites his lip, sets his jaw, and goes to sit on the couch in silence. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I’m sure I’ve hurt him. But, the problem with being a snarky piece of shit boyfriend, is that I’m not good at apologizing for what I’ve said. So I don’t. I just let it go. And go back to my word puzzle. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>We nip down to ASDA to grab some ingredients for Bunce’s ambitious dinner tonight. Simon holds my hand (which he sometimes doesn’t do in public, but I’m lucky today) and I forget about the garish rips in his jeans. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When we get back, Simon goes to bed early. I stick in the living room until he’s changed to come kiss me goodnight.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Before I leave, I go into Simon’s room to collect my schoolbag. I see a peek of green in the rubbish and I stop in my tracks. I step over to it and pull up the fabric out of the bin and discover that it’s Simon’s shirt he was wearing a few days ago — the one I told him that I hated. And the ripped jeans are settled just underneath.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I feel guilt pile up in my stomach. I didn’t mean for Simon to throw them away. I know that he loves that shirt, even if it is a plague upon this earth. And he said those jeans were comfortable. I drop them both back into the bin and decide to deal with the settling of remorse creating a panic in my torso later. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>— </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh my God</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Shep says, finishing unwrapping the (very poorly wrapped) gift that Simon had handed him. “How did you know I liked the green apple ones?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Simon laughs. “We talk about sweets practically every day, Shep. You think I didn’t know what were your favourites?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Shep and Simon fist bump and I hold back from rolling my eyes. It’s Christmas — I’ll allow them to be bros for today without much ridicule. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>We’ve spent the majority of the morning eating scones that Simon got up early to make and exchanging presents. It’s now my turn to give Simon mine and I’m terrified of what his reaction will be. I likely should have given it to him in private on Christmas Eve or something of the sort, but instead I waited until we were in front of Penelope and Shep. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I hand Simon my large present and he looks at me with raised eyebrows. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Open it,” I say. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He takes it and starts to tear open the wrapping paper. The first thing he pulls out is a dark green sweater that’s almost identical to the one that I own. He gives me a knowing look because I’ve mentioned before that I love it when we match.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The second item that he pulls from the package is an ugly bright green shirt with the phrase </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sarcastic Comment Loading… </span>
  </em>
  <span>printed on it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Simon looks up at me with wide eyes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>I think Penelope and Shep have no idea what’s going on. They know I have a better fashion sense than this.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, close enough to Simon that I don’t think Penelope and Shepard can hear me. Thankfully, they’ve taken the hint and started up their own conversation about the green apple sweets. “I didn’t mean to make you throw the other one out.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Simon shakes his head and even though he rolls his eyes at me, I can tell he’s grateful. “Thank you, love,” he says, leaning over towards me so I can kiss him softly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s the ugliest shirt I’ve ever seen,” I say as I pull back. “But the least I could do is get you one that doesn’t have numerous holes in the armpits.” Then, I add, “There’s one more, darling.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Simon tugs back and sets the shirt aside to pick up the new pair of jeans that are set inside the wrapping. I nod at him, urging him to pull them out. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re really nice, Baz, but-” he stops when he sees the </span>
  <em>
    <span>alterations </span>
  </em>
  <span>I’ve made. There are two rips in the same spot where they’d been on his other jeans. But these are much nicer (and more expensive) jeans that I know will fit Simon perfectly. (Rips </span>
  <em>
    <span>can </span>
  </em>
  <span>be fashionable, if they’re done right.)</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You can keep your rips,” I say. “But at least wear nicer jeans that you’ve haven’t had for over five years.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Simon laughs and strips out of his current pyjama top so he can replace it with his new shirt. And when it gets colder, he layers on the sweater over the top of it. He promises me he’ll try on the jeans tomorrow. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a small gesture and certainly the </span>
  <em>
    <span>least </span>
  </em>
  <span>I could do, but Simon spends the rest of the afternoon curled into my side, whispering sweet comments into my ear. I’m determined to get him out of that shirt and into my bed before the night is over. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>feel free to find me on <a href="snowybank.tumblr.com">tumblr</a>!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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